


Communication like that, unspoken.

by Sarie_Fairy



Series: Fictober 2020 [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, MSR, Secret Sex, Sex, adjoining doors, set sometime after Detour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:14:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26794198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarie_Fairy/pseuds/Sarie_Fairy
Summary: FICTOBER Day 3 - Prompt: “and neither should you”Scully has just finished a busy day, is tired and irritable. But she finds a way to unwind.Set sometime after Detour, season 4, ep 5 of The X-Files.The Detour quotes were written by Frank Spotnitz
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Series: Fictober 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951573
Comments: 16
Kudos: 95





	Communication like that, unspoken.

Dog tired, and not having found the smoking gun in any of the back-to-back autopsies she had performed, Scully pushed her way out of the morgue into the brisk night air. Only bubbling close to the surface when she was beat-down exhausted, a familiar resentment clung to her, like the smell of formaldehyde that plagued her skin, invaded the fibres of her undergarments. She would take a scalding shower back at the hotel—wash her hair twice.

Scully sometimes felt that Mulder paraded her; look here’s little Dana, not only is she an FBI Agent, she is also a medical doctor, a pathologist; move out of the way, so we can watch her slice and dice. And she felt a little like his possession, when he made her schedule, as he had done that day.

It was beyond late when she slipped the key into the lock—already tomorrow. Her room was aglow, lit up from the soft radiance of a bedside lamp she must have left on that morning. Dropping her bag unceremoniously on the floor by the door, she heeled off her shoes and headed for the bathroom. 

On her way across the carpet, she noticed the adjoining door to Mulder’s hotel room ajar, light from a television bouncing blue hues off the shiny paintwork, into her dim room. Some of here ire shook away that at least he had waited up for her, though she wasn’t particularly in the mood to discuss her non-findings with him before bed. 

At times it pissed her off that she had a ‘practical’ skill over Mulder. His talent for profiling, tended not to keep him out, alone, past midnight and stinking to high heaven of death. Mostly, Spooky could shake someone down on the fly, crunch sunflower seed husks into the console as he turned to her with this idea or that, driving all the while. 

Scully’s mind began to loosely wind its way around the subject of why Mulder hadn’t knuckled the door already. Pushed into her room, puppy-dogging questions at her in that way he did. Then it found its way around a new thought—the door was ajar. That meant something. Now.

Quietly pulling on the handle, she made space and poked her head into his room—curled on his side, bare back to Scully—his pattern of breath telling of sleep.

Taking a deep sigh, she unconsciously matched the rhythm of the slow, comforting sounds he was making. Pressing the balls of her stockinged feet into the carpet, balancing on the edge, she pondered her next steps; sleep or an alternate reality beyond the door frame… 

_Fuck it._

She bit her lip and decided not to think. To ditch her shower, her lonely bed, the morgue, the day, her unfounded resentment at him, _the Bureau’s policy of male and female agents consorting in the same motel room while on assignment_ —in favour of waking Mulder by rubbing her disinfectant scented self all over him.

That, or something like that, had happened for the first time very recently. A few times since, and only on assignment. They hadn’t talked about it—their commutation through a look, touch, a door suggestively cracked open, as it was left tonight, rather than words.

_Yeah, you see that? We don’t need that conference. We have communication like that, unspoken._

And Scully didn’t intend to talk about it this time either. 

She stripped there in the doorway, between their two rooms, two worlds, down to her underpants.

Padding over to the bed, she slipped in behind him, forming herself into the big spoon. Pressed her naked breasts onto the expanse of the warm honey-coloured skin of his back—her day immediately melting from her.

Closing her eyes, engulfed in his smell, and feeling him push back against her, she pressed her lips into the nape of his neck, his warm flesh. Mulder reached his forearm around behind her and cupped her arse, gently squeezed.

“Come 'er,” he said in a dozy voice that sounded like home. Rolling back into her, flat on the bed, he pulled her over him and she collapsed onto his naked chest. “Today okay?” he asked gently, uncovering her forehead by tucking some hair behind her ear.

Scully nodded simply, chin resting on her forearms, that were draped over his pecs.

Seeking, her eyes travelled over the terrain of his familiar features, indulging in her vantage point, before coming to rest in the deep cosmos of those eyes. There, they spoke, without sound, without words, an understanding flashing between them. Cradling the back of her head, and dipping his fingertips into the back of her underpants, he bruised his lips to hers and they kissed. Opening her jaw, she welcomed his tongue, greeting it with languid strokes; their lips pressing and sliding and sucking.

They dragged off each other's underthings, skillfully, kissing flesh within reach. Scully positioned anew on her back, Mulder's hips between her thighs. She was warm and wet and opened for him, and he slipped into her with precision and care, a nipple between teeth. They surged together, as familiar as the tide, as if they had been coupling that way for all of Time, passionate and tender. Perhaps they had. They wrote poetry on one another’s skin. Got lost and then found and then rose to a peak as one. 

Crashed and entangling, slippery, sweat soaked, their hands continued to map one another's bodies, lips steadily pressed over cooling flesh.

“Do you think much about what we’re doing Scully?” he ventured, a whisper between kisses over her temple. He brushed that hair from her brow again, found and touched his lips to the tip of her nose. They had talked during, the other precious times they had lay together like that. Conversed about work, about the most horrendous things, but never about the fact that they were saying those things, bare-naked and entwined.

“I don’t think about it too much really,” she lied, “and neither should you.”

The corners of his mouth curled up, and he nodded. “Oh, okay, if you say so,” he agreed and drew the blankets around them. 

“I do," she confirmed, "say so,”—punctuating her words with a peck to his lips before settling back into the crook of his arm, the side of her head to his chest.

They closed their eyes and allowed sleep to claim them.

During the day, they chased monsters together.

And now at night, in one another’s arms, they chased them away.

**Author's Note:**

> I did some research but could not confirm either way if pathologists use formaldehyde during autopsies, but it fit with the story.
> 
> I'll be posting something new, in the Fictober 2020 series, each day in October for Fictober, run on Tumblr, from this[ prompt list](https://fictober-event.tumblr.com/post/628547358001594368/fictober-event-the-prompts-for-2020%22).  
> Thank you for reading 💕


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